Under the Weather
by Eponymous Rose
Summary: Wash, Maine, and Project Freelancer. Sometimes the only constant is the rain.
1. Chapter 1

The first time he meets a Freelancer, it's in the pouring rain.

David is standing knee-deep in the mud of the battlefield, swaying on his feet, blood and rainwater streaming through gashes in his bodysuit. The Freelancers look strange and garish against that bleak backdrop, one in teal armor, the other in improbably spotless white. The woman in teal's been talking to him, telling him about reassignment and promotions and experimental programs. Telling him he's been _selected_, her own proud anticipation seeping into the word. Telling him that this is a rare honor.

He stares up at her, way up—she's still solid in her footing while he's mired in the muck. He tries to remember how to loosen his grip on the stock of his rifle, how to clear his throat and speak instead of barking orders. Field promotion. Rest of his unit's command center wiped out. Not so much leading as desperately holding position. Four days, maybe five, no relief in sight, and then the Freelancers come charging in, sending the Covies packing.

It took the two of them less than an hour to do it.

"You have conducted yourself with exceptional valor," the Freelancer repeats, a little more uncertain in the face of his blank stare. "Your commanders have recommended you for special training."

He's having trouble focusing on her beyond the rain seeping through a gash in his helmet's faceplate. The smell of the rain on this planet isn't quite right, sickeningly salty and harsh against his tongue. "Thank you," he says, because it's what she wants to hear, because sheer dogged inertia isn't a virtue, isn't any kind of heroism. "I'm just, ah. I'm just a little tired."

Her body language changes, and he's oddly cheered when her boot skids in the mud as she moves closer. But then he's stumbling, putting a knee to the ground, finally letting go of his rifle in his attempt to steady himself.

Her silent companion gets to him first.

The guy's _huge_, got 'team heavy' written all over him. David has a confused memory of watching him take out a half-dozen Elites with his fists alone. His hands are gentle now, hooking David's elbow, holding him steady while he gets his feet back under him.

"So." David's pleased at the strength of his own voice, considering the rainwater dribbling down his forehead, dripping from his nose. Considering the blood. "You the cavalry or something?"

The guy thinks about it for a while, then rumbles, "Always."

* * *

Training's rough. Especially since the name 'Washington' just doesn't stick in his head, and he spends the first week staring blankly whenever the Director calls out orders. He's never been much good at codenames, at any of that spy stuff. Never had the subtlety for it.

He meets the twins, North and South Dakota. Takes on South in hand-to-hand on his first day in the training arena and gets his left wrist broken for his troubles. They come to see him in Medical, North hovering with a nervous grin, South slamming herself casually into the chair beside him.

"Dragged you in for observation, huh?"

David—no, _Washington—_shrugs. "Protocol. Just a busted wrist, but it's my first time here, so they need—" He waves his good hand vaguely. "—tests and things."

She stares at the immobilized limb with an open fascination that he finds only marginally less annoying than North's fidgeting. "You left-handed?"

"Uh," he says. "Yeah."

"Ooh," she says. "Sorry, kid. That's gonna make... certain things difficult, for a while."

"South," North says quellingly

"Don't worry," Wash says, deadpan. "For that, I'm ambidextrous."

South stares at him for a long moment, then bursts out laughing. Behind her, North presses the palm of his hand to his face, but Wash is pretty sure he's hiding a smile "You gotta watch your guard, dumbass," she says, once she's recovered her composure. "Nevada got his hand ripped right off in battle trying a half-assed judo throw like you did."

He blinks. "Really?"

"Let's not play another round of 'scare the rookie', huh, South?" North offers Wash a smile that's equal parts good humor and apology. He's sincere, Wash realizes, and suddenly he isn't quite as annoyed by North's hovering.

South smirks at him. "Nah, I like this one. Let's keep him around."

"Oh my god South he's not a pet that followed you home," North mutters, all in one breath.

"Seriously," she says, kicking her feet up beside his on the cot. "You should come see me sometime once the Director's done trying to break you with his pseudo-training bullshit." (Another warning "_South_" from her brother.) "I can help you out with the hand-to-hand stuff. You're kind of terrible at it."

Wash shrugs, scratching at his arm. "They didn't bring me on for my hand-to-hand skills."

"I know the feeling," North says. "But trust me, the Director values well-rounded agents. If you want to get on that leaderboard, you should probably brush up on your CQC."

Wash is starting to feel like the conversation's getting away from him. He wonders whether the painkillers might be kicking in. "Why should I care about the leaderboard?"

South and North exchange glances, and for a second he can see the family resemblance in the worry-lines that crease their brows. Then South shrugs. "I figure a storm's coming. Might be the leaderboard lets the Director know who gets the first lifeboats."

"Might be nothing," North says, as though they're picking up some longstanding argument where they left off.

"Might not be."

A nurse comes in then to check his vitals, and on that ambiguous note the twins leave his bedside. Wash slumps back against the thin sheets and tries to ignore the glare of the fluorescent lights, at least enough to drop into a fitful doze.

* * *

A hand on his shoulder pulls him out of sleep, and he kicks and thrashes for a moment, disoriented. Then he recognizes the gold helmet and white armor, the team heavy. Hasn't seen the guy since his rescue out in the ass-end of nowhere. _Agent Maine_, his brain spits out belatedly.

The Director of Project Freelancer is standing at Maine's side, hands behind his back, lips pulled into a tight, thin line. "I have an assignment for you, Agent Washington."

Wash stares at him, trying to focus his sleep-blurred vision. There's an IV in the crook of his elbow, feeding him painkillers that make his stomach churn and smear his thoughts out against the hazy backdrop of his mind. "Sir?"

"Agent Maine was wounded in battle one week ago. We have need of somebody with your talents for mid-range marksmanship to test his performance."

Wash blinks, rubbing at his eyes with his right hand. His left wrist twinges. "I, uh. I have a broken wrist. Sir."

"Yes," says the Director. "You do."

Wash stares at him, waiting for the punchline, then looks over to Maine, who stands at impassive, silent attention. "Um," Wash says.

The Director leans forward, and Wash shrinks back in his cot. "There is an order to things, Agent Washington. The system determines the training regimen. I cannot delay because of your careless injury. I believe you were informed of the high demands this Project will place on you."

Wash looks at Maine and remembers the rain, and the blood. Remembers what he owes the Project. Remembers what South said about breaking. "Yeah," he says, roughly. "Yes, sir. Just give me a minute to get suited up, here."

An hour later, he's standing back in the training ring.

The scowling doctor pumped him full of an extra dose of painkillers and a mild stimulant before he left, gave him strict instructions to stick to single-shot, to avoid the added recoil of burstfire. Cursed the Director under her breath. Wash nodded and kept quiet and swallowed down nausea.

Now he's swaying on his feet, staring down a hulking behemoth in white and gold and trying very hard not to remember the sound of snapping bones.

"Agent Washington's vitals are less than optimal," a voice says, and it takes Wash a moment to place it as the facility's AI.

"Understood, FILSS," the Director says. He's standing in the observation room, and Wash winces when he realizes the twins are up there beside him, watching curiously. The woman in teal—Agent Carolina, top of the leaderboard—is at his right side, arms crossed, and someone Wash doesn't know, wearing gold armor, is leaning against the wall behind her in a would-be casual pose.

They look very much like an audience waiting for the curtain to rise. Wash shifts his gaze to Maine, hesitantly opens their armor's text-based comm frequencies. _**Were you really hurt?**_

Maine jolts a little, as though surprised at the intrusion. He hesitates, visibly stalling as he loads the lockdown paint rounds into his shotgun, and then replies, _**No.**_

_**This isn't training for you. This is a test for me, after that less-than-impressive fight with South this morning.**_

_**Yes.**_

Wash clenches his hands into fists, feels the burn as bone grinds against bone in his left wrist. _**The Director's a bit of a dick, huh?**_

Maine doesn't hesitate this time, signals a brief smile with his hand. _**Yes.**_

"Begin," the Director says.

Wash's rifle is still clipped onto his back, but the room is shifting, columns rising from the floor, so he has just enough time to fling himself into cover and pull it free. Just _holding_ the damn weapon hurts, and he sucks in a breath, trying to find a comfortable grip and still keep track of Maine, who hasn't fired off a single shot yet.

His heart is pounding too fast, too loud in his ears. He steals a glimpse around cover in time to see a flash of white, fires a single, experimental shot that he's nearly certain will miss.

The paint splatters against a column, a few flecks marring the white of Maine's armor, but Wash barely has time to notice before the pain of the rifle's kick really registers, sharp agony streaking like an arrow through his damaged bones. He chokes on a scream, jerks back into cover, tries to keep a grip on the gun with his spasming hand.

His pain-dulled senses are slow to report movement in his peripheral vision, and Wash turns sluggishly just in time to take a shotgun blast directly to the chest.

The paint hardens instantly, triggering a lockdown that manifests as a tingling jolt up and down his extremities. With his armor locked solid, he tips over, almost comically, and the jarring landing sends another wave of pain through his arm.

Wordlessly, Maine leans over him and applies the solvent to the paint. It finally releases its hold on his armor around the same time as Wash manages to catch his breath.

"Round one goes to Agent Maine," FILSS says. "Please reposition."

Maine jogs back to the starting position, doesn't offer him a hand up. That's a clue, Wash thinks muzzily. He's expected to prove something, here.

Wash staggers back to his feet just as FILSS says, "Round two: begin."

This time, he switches the rifle to his right hand as he spins into cover, fires off a couple clumsy one-handed shots as suppression while he gets his bearings. He figures the distance between the columns is a little longer on one axis than the other. Files that thought away for future reference.

Maine is moving, taking exactly the same route as before. Wash sucks in a breath, dodges back into cover, then steadies the rifle with his bad hand to pull off a single shot. It misses, embarrassingly wide of the mark. This time Maine shoots him point-blank in the face.

Wash fades out for a second, then jolts awake flat on his back with the paint already dissolved from his helmet's faceplate. FILSS is saying, "Alert! Medical assistance to the training room floor!"

"Belay that," the Director says, sounding irritated. "He's awake."

Wash rolls onto his side, coughing, and then drags himself to his feet. Maine is back in position. "Round three," FILSS says, but Wash is already moving.

He throws himself behind a piece of cover on the diagonal, switching the axes of the firefight, and fumbles with his rifle, activating burstfire and clamping his shaking left hand around the grip, easing his finger over the trigger. By the time he's got it done, Maine is already halfway to him.

Maine hasn't noticed the extra distance between the columns on this approach.

Wash catches him in the split-second before he reaches cover, sends a burst of three paint pellets at him. The third one hits Maine's left hand, pinning it to the wall behind him.

The burstfire recoil sends a sickening snap through Wash's left wrist, and he doubles over, gasping into his suit's rebreather, his HUD lighting up with helpful warnings about hyperventilation. He can hear the snarl in Maine's voice, and then a crackling, crumbling noise. He looks up in time to see Maine dragging his arm free of the lockdown paint and raising his shotgun.

Everything fades out again, for longer this time.

* * *

When he wakes up, there's somebody unfamiliar beside his bed, wearing gold armor but no helmet. He's also eating jello.

Wash stares at him, finally places him as the mysterious figure who'd been standing behind Carolina in the observation room. A mysterious figure... currently eating jello. His brain keeps coming back to that fact, and it takes him a while to dig far enough past the haze to realize that it must be _his_ jello the mysterious figure's eating.

"Hey," Wash mumbles. "My jello."

The guy blinks, then breaks into a beaming grin. "Hah. Medics said you had a sweet tooth. Figured this might be enough to perk you up."

Wash squints at him. "I don't think the theft of a patient's dessert is a recognized medical practice."

"Hey, man, whatever gets results. I'm York, by the way. Infiltration guy. Don't think we've met." York—third on the leaderboard, Wash remembers—sticks the spoon in his mouth and holds out the half-empty cup. "Want the rest?"

Wash sighs. "All yours."

York grins and digs back in. "Nice showing out on the training floor, by the way. You're quick and you're a good shot. I didn't realize you were out there with a broken wrist, too. I mean, the Director had to have known you were hurt. Why the hell'd he set you up against Maine, anyway?"

Wash shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable with the talkative agent and his too-wide smile. "My guess is, he was planning on kicking me out after the match against South this morning. Needed a reason to keep me around."

York thinks about that, spoon halfway to his mouth, then shrugs. "You must've given him a reason. You're on the main roster, now. Once you're mostly recovered—which, by the way, is gonna be more like three weeks now with all the new and exciting ways you messed up your arm—you'll be running missions with the rest of us. So how'd you pull that off?"

"I guess he picked me in the first place because I didn't give up when I should have," Wash says. Whatever painkiller's currently flowing through his veins is also loosening his tongue. "He wanted to make sure it wasn't a fluke. Once I realized that, all I needed to do was keep going until I either won or passed out."

York winces. "Man, that does not sound like a healthy attitude. You're a little messed up, aren't you?"

"I was told it was a job requirement."

"Hah," York says. "You thinking new motivational posters in the mess? 'You don't have to be suicidally brave to work here, but it helps?'"

"Something like that."

They lapse into a thoughtful silence, and then York's eyes go wide. "Uh," he says. "I think you've got another visitor."

Wash glances over to the door. White armor, gold helmet. He's surprised at the surge of fond familiarity that rushes through him at the sight. "Hey, Maine."

Maine grunts and turns to look at York, who flushes. "Uh," he says again. "Yeah, I'm gonna just, I'm gonna just leave. Quietly. No trouble here." He fumbles with the jello cup, then awkwardly jams the spoon into his mouth and raises both hands, backing cautiously out of the room.

Wash watches him go with a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "What the hell was that?"

Maine shrugs. "Beat him up once."

"On or off the training room floor?"

Maine thinks about it. "Both. Put him through a wall."

Wash snorts, then drags the rest of his tray of food closer, picking sadly at the congealed mass of something that may once have aspired to be rice. Maine watches him for a moment, then reaches out and drops a fresh cup of jello onto his tray. "Whoa," Wash says. "Where'd you get that?"

Maine shrugs.

"Well, y'know. Thanks."

"Sorry," Maine says, after a moment. "I had orders."

"I know," Wash says. "It's okay. I owe the Director, too."

Maine's shoulders roll once, signaling discomfort, and Wash looks down, focusing on peeling back the lid of the jello one-handed. "Hey," he says. "South told me earlier there's a storm coming. You ever get that feeling, too?"

Maine gives a long, slow sigh. "Always."


	2. Chapter 2

The first time Agent Washington is assigned to a Freelancer ground team, it's raining so hard he can barely see in front of him.

He and Maine are providing support and diversion for an infiltration team made up of Agent York, Agent Carolina, and the unsettlingly cheerful Agent Florida. Florida once visited Wash in the infirmary with a ridiculously huge bouquet of flowers and offered to give him knife-throwing lessons. Wash resolved, privately, to stay the hell away from anyone who described the ideal growing conditions for orchids on a spaceship in the same breath as he described the easiest way to slit a man's throat while he slept.

Now, with his rifle torn from his hands by a near-miss explosion, his sidearm jammed and gummed up with muddy debris, brawling inelegantly in a mess of Insurrectionist soldiers, Wash is seriously starting to regret not taking Florida up on that offer.

The infiltration team's already in position, gathering data of some sort—the Director hadn't briefed him on the details, and Wash hadn't asked. Maine is about five hundred meters to his left, according to his HUD. For all intents and purposes, Wash is alone.

One Innie soldier grabs him from behind. Another moves in to press the barrel of a Magnum under Wash's chin. She doesn't fire; she's shouting something that doesn't quite register over the constant rumble of thunder and crashing of rain and hail. Wash redistributes the power in his armor, adding a force to his kick that surprises even him, crumpling the chestplate of her armor like it's paper. He twists, squirming in the grip of the startled man behind him for an awkward moment before he realizes he hasn't restored full power to his arms yet. When he does, it's trivial to break the hold and whip back around, to grab the man's pistol and unload it into his gut. If he shouts, the wind carries the sound away.

Wash weaves back, keeping to the trees for cover, fires off two quick shots to pick off the next attackers, then staggers as something punches into his shoulder, bleeding away his shields. The second shot skips across his chestplate but doesn't penetrate his bodysuit, and by then he's close enough to pick off the sniper with his pistol.

He breathes hard, slumping against a tree in the sudden stillness, reassuring himself with probing fingers that neither of the shots broke the skin, then opens his text comm. _**You alive?**_

Maine's reply is delayed. _**Need help.**_

Wash sucks in a breath, reloads his pistol, and jogs through the mud, following the indicator on his HUD, belatedly setting up a sensor overlay to keep the strobing flares of lightning from tripping him up in the darkness. The thunder's so loud, so constant, that he almost stumbles into the fight before he hears the screaming.

Someone staggers past him, hand clutched over the blood fountaining from her throat, and then Wash sees Maine. His armor isn't clean anymore; even in the darkness Wash can make out the blood coating it. He's tearing through the Innie ranks with a knife in one hand and a shotgun in the other. He's actually _wielding a shotgun one-handed_.

There's also a hole in his helmet, cracks spiderwebbing out across the gold. Maine is staggering. His biocomm readouts have always looked kind of odd, but not... not like this.

"Fuck," Wash whispers, and stumbles into the fray in time to pick off the sniper already taking aim at Maine from behind. He reopens the text comm channel. _**These guys are dicks.**_

He feels Maine shrug in response behind him, figures okay, yeah, that means he's probably all right, and then they both flinch at a particularly bright bolt of lightning. Carolina's voice comes over the radio with the thunder, eerily calm and professional. "Ground team, report."

"We're here, boss," Wash says. "Maine's hurt. We can try to get to the rendezvous—"

"Negative," Carolina says, then pauses. "How bad's Maine?"

"Fine," Maine says, driving his ka-bar into an Insurrectionist's chest.

Carolina doesn't hesitate. "Okay. We got ambushed here—somebody tipped them off. York's down, I'm wounded. We need you to hold your position until we can find an alternative route to evac."

"Uh," says Wash, just as his pistol clicks empty. He wonders vaguely if he might be able to do some damage throwing it at somebody. "Yeah. Okay, we can do that."

"Hang in there," Carolina says. "Out."

Wash's HUD flickers with the next flash of lightning, and he stumbles back against Maine, disoriented. A strafing line of assault rifle fire stops just short of hitting him. _**I'm empty. You take out anyone with a rifle earlier?**_

In response, Maine throws up a marker on Wash's HUD. Wash holds his breath, counts out the reload time for the guy shooting at him, then throws himself forward into a tight roll, fumbling for the battle rifle along the way, gunfire raising spatters of mud behind him. He finishes his roll covered in mud, awkwardly sliding to his knees, but assault-rifle guy's out in the open and in the middle of reloading. Easy pickings. Only after he's down does Wash check the magazine of his new rifle—it's not empty, but near enough that he'll have to watch his shots. Okay. Nothing new there.

Okay.

A low rattling noise rumbles over the noise of the thunder. It takes Wash too long to separate the two sounds. It takes him too long, and for weeks he dreams about that sound. In his dreams, he always figures it out sooner.

The chaingun fire mows Maine down before he even realizes what's happening.

Wash staggers, stunned, watching bullets punch through Maine's chest, watching Maine go limp all at once. Watching Maine falling, and then lightning striking somewhere nearby, the roar of thunder drowning out the chaingun again.

Wash scrambles back, drags himself behind a tree, huddles down as the gunner swings around to fire at him. He's breathing way too fast.

"C'mon," he mutters. Chunks of bark are flying around him, and he can hear the groan of his makeshift cover starting to collapse. "_C'mon_."

When the first bullet pings off his armor, he drags himself from cover, fires off one three-shot burst from his rifle. Catches the gunner in the visor, takes him down.

He stumbles over a protruding tree root, fires blind at a flash of color somewhere to his left. Hears a gratifying scream. Gets back to his feet, keeps running.

Maine is lying still. His armor's systems, including biocomm, are offline. Swearing, Wash digs into his emergency pack, drags out a needle of biofoam, jams it into the first wound he sees. Digs into Maine's emergency pack for a second needle.

Someone takes a potshot at him. Wash half-turns, taking him down with two shots. Four left in the clip. It's not until he's injecting Maine that he realizes there's an ache low on his own shoulder that throbs in time with his heartbeat. His HUD is flashing a warning: armor integrity compromised. His own biocomm is setting off alarms: blood pressure, heartrate, respiration. He disables it.

He opens a channel. "Infiltration team, come in." His voice is hoarse, shaky.

"Not now," Carolina yells, so loud in his ears that he jumps. Gunfire echoes across the radio.

Wash is putting pressure on the remaining wounds, fumbling with clumsy hands. His fingers are cold inside his gloves. "Maine's down," he says. "We're dying out here."

He hears a little grunt from Carolina's comm, a wet-sounding gasp. She coughs, and for a moment Wash closes his eyes, focusing on his own ragged breathing. "Okay," she says. "Okay. We're going to try for the extraction point. We can swing back to pick you up."

Wash exhales. "Okay, boss. Good luck."

"You too."

The lightning's not nearly as intense now, the storm moving off. Wash slumps over Maine's body, listening for the rumbling of his breathing over the rumbling of thunder.

The whole thing feels eerily familiar. And, hell, he'd kind of liked the idea that Project Freelancer was a rescue for him, dragging him out of the muck and the mire. Maybe not. Maybe it was only ever a stay of execution. "We've gotta stop meeting like this," he mumbles into Maine's shoulder.

He hears motion, fires blind. Misses. Fires again, raising his head, and this time someone goes down. Two shots left.

His motion trackers pick up four more people incoming. Wash sighs, opens a text comm into the dead air. _**Think I can take 'em all down with two bullets? Saw a guy pull that off once.**_ No reply. His HUD flashes a warning that his intended recipient does not have a functional communications system.

His HUD paints the incoming shapes as friendlies.

He doesn't believe it at first, staring blankly into space and refocusing on the display a few times to test his vision. Then a comm opens, and South's voice comes in, loud and strident. "You dipshits still alive?"

Wash laughs, sinking down again until his helmet's pressed against Maine's armor. "Over here," North calls. "I see them on trackers."

"I don't."

"You didn't _set your goddamn trackers_, South."

"Would you fuck off with that? You and Connie take these guys, me and Wyoming'll go after the others."

"Be careful."

South snorts. Moments later, North says, "Oh, hell," softly, and it's only then that Wash realizes he hasn't opened his comm line yet, that Maine's biocomm is offline and his own is disabled. He can't quite bring himself to care. They'll figure it out. Or they won't.

Someone moves up to him, hesitantly, and Wash raises his head, trying to focus. Brown armor, fancy helmet. Bomb-disposal, maybe. "They're alive," she says, then leans down, resting a hand on Wash's shoulder. "You're alive, right?"

Wash sways and her grip on his shoulder tightens, shifting to apply biofoam to the bullet wound in his back. "Uh," he says, when the pain-fogged haze finally starts to clear his vision. "Jury's still out. Maine... Maine needs help. Sounded like Carolina and York are hurt pretty bad. I don't know about Florida."

"Nobody ever really knows about Florida," she says, vaguely. "North?"

North is crouched over Maine, applying biofoam. "Yeah, Connie, these guys need to get back to the ship, quick. I don't know what the hell the Director was thinking, sending them into something like this."

"Someone tipped them off," Wash says. He keeps sinking forward and Connie keeps pulling him back. He's shaking, adrenaline-sick. "Is Maine—"

"He's still breathing," North says, reassuringly. "We get him up to the ship, he's got a good chance. Takes a lot to keep this guy down."

"Can you stand?" Connie asks, and it's such a ridiculous demand that Wash just sort of stares at her blankly. But she's already dragging his arm over her shoulders, and he's surprised to find a little strength in his legs yet, manages to push himself to his feet. "I'm gonna go drop this guy off at the Pelican, bring back help for Maine," she says.

"I think Maine's stable for now," North says. "Go ahead. Watch your sectors."

It's only about a klick to the dropship. Halfway there, South comes over the line, says, "Fuck. Carolina's pretty fucked up. Florida says York stopped breathing twice before we got here."

"He did start right up again after that." Florida's voice is jarringly cheerful. "They'll pull through. None of this negative thinking, my girl!"

"If you call me that again, I am going to burn everything you love."

"Now, there's some honest self-expression! Most important part of any human interaction, you know."

"Is my telling you to fuck yourself sideways an important part of human interaction, too?"

"Absolutely! I'm so glad we had this talk."

"Don't count us out yet," Carolina says. Her voice is strong, but there's an audible wheeze in her breathing. "And cut the chatter. There are still hostiles around."

Another voice comes over the line, unexpectedly and startlingly British. "North, Wyoming here. I'm inbound to your location to assist with Agent Maine."

"Copy that."

The long, slow stumble to the Pelican is another feature in Wash's future nightmares. Stumbling through the dark, Connie silent and patient at his side, rain falling hard against his helmet, drowning out the last faint rumbles of thunder. Listening to North and Wyoming murmur over the open comm, prepping Maine to be moved. Waiting for another bullet to the back that never comes.

By the time they stagger into the Pelican, Wash is shivering uncontrollably. A medic is waiting, and Wash makes a token effort to help unclasp his armor's chestpiece before he realizes his hands are shaking too badly.

The medic smiles at him, and he recognizes Saresh, a young man from the MoI's medical bay who'd been particularly lenient with jello distribution during Wash's stay. "Hey, it's okay. You're just a bit shocky. Let's get you lying down so we can take a look at that hole in your back."

Wash sways, blinking, and clumsily fumbles off his helmet. The voices on the comm line go blessedly quiet, but the rain and the wind outside are louder, amplified. Connie's helping Saresh pull off Wash's armor, calm and silent. Connie. Agent Connecticut, presumably. He can't remember seeing her name on the leaderboard, but then, his head's a little foggy. He's probably forgetting a lot of things.

Stripped down to his bodysuit, he sinks uncomfortably onto his stomach along a row of seats, wincing as Saresh starts excising the fabric near the wound.

The pilot picks that moment to swing into the passenger compartment. She pauses, regarding him critically. "Another rookie shot full of holes, huh?"

"Just the one hole," Saresh says. "New record."

"Hey, good job, kid," the pilot says, moving past him to go stare out the back of the Pelican. "Try not to bleed too much on the upholstery."

Saresh injects Wash with something that instantly makes his eyelids droop and his thrumming heartrate slow. "No," he mumbles, "No, wait. I want to... the others..."

"Should've thought of that before you got shot," Saresh says, and Wash begins to reconsider any jello-based feelings of good will he might've harbored toward the guy.

Wash sighs, pressing his face into his forearm, breathing in the smell of blood and rain and kevlar. He glances up once, sees Connie watching him with her helmet under one arm, her brow furrowed. Her steady gaze follows him into the dark, into choking, confused nightmares, into blood and pain and fear, into the remembered void of the text comm on his HUD, flashing empty and silent.

* * *

This time, when Wash wakes up, he's not the only one in Medical.

It's dark, ship's night, and the only sound is the steady beeping of monitors. He rolls onto his side, feeling a strange, tingling numbness in his back, and sees that three other beds are occupied.

Carolina's in the cot nearest him. He's seen her out of armor before, but never looking so strange and small and pale, her face slack and unnaturally relaxed. It makes his stomach clench, sends a jolt of urgency through him.

He sits up slowly, waits for the room to stop tilting. This time, there's no IV in his arm. Untethered, he pushes himself carefully to his feet, shuffles across the room with one arm drawn in toward his chest as though for support.

York's in the bed beside Carolina, almost unrecognizable with his gelled hair flattened down by bandages, but his sleep seems more restful, more normal, one arm dangling off the edge of the bed, the other wedged under the pillow behind him. He's even snoring a little.

Maine is at the end of the row, and Wash pauses. It's practically the first time he's seen the guy out of armor, and all he can focus on is the angry red welt on his shaved head, scored by a near-miss gunshot. Couple inches down, it would've gone through his brain.

Trying to convince himself his shivering is just the natural result of being stuck in flimsy hospital pajamas, Wash pulls up a chair beside Maine's cot, sits down gingerly and hugs his knees to his chest.

Maine's eyes open, focus on him, and Wash jumps.

"Whoa," he says. "You're awake."

Maine's mouth twitches into a smile; Wash notices that his hand moves, first, to signal it. "I heal fast."

"No kidding." Wash is grinning broadly, aware that he probably looks ridiculous but unable to help it. "You probably took more hits than the rest of us combined. I'm glad you're okay."

Maine shrugs. "Thanks to you."

"Hey, we're Project Freelancer. We're the cavalry, right?"

Maine smiles again. "Always." His smile wipes itself away pretty quickly, though, and he cranes his neck to look at the others.

"York seems okay," Wash says. "Carolina's kinda freaking me out. I can't tell if it's just that I've never seen her so relaxed before."

Maine shrugs, his lips pressed into a tight line, and rubs at the welt on his head. "She's strong."

"Yeah," says a new voice. "She really is."

Maine doesn't react, but Wash jumps again, startled, and turns in his chair to see someone standing in the doorway. _Connie_, his brain spits out, belatedly.

"Sorry," she says. "Couldn't sleep, wanted to check in on you guys." She looks absolutely exhausted, dark circles bruised under her eyes.

"How are they?" Wash asks, nodding toward the others.

She shrugs. "Carolina managed to make it all the way back to the Pelican under her own power with two bullets in her lung. They think she's gonna be okay. York was critical for a while, but once they got the shrapnel out of his chest he started bouncing back. And Maine, well."

Maine gives a wordless shrug as testimonial.

Wash rubs the back of his head, then drags his fingers through his hair, standing it on end. He needs a haircut, he thinks. "What the hell happened? Was our intel bad?"

Connie looks away, a scowl on her face. "Someone tipped them off. They knew we were coming, knew our extraction points. I guess they just didn't know how many of us the Director sent."

"Oh man," Wash says. "Internals is gonna have a field day with that."

"Tell me about it," Connie says. "Be prepared to answer some awkward questions once you're healed up. By the way, you were in pretty good shape, all things considered. Bullet was slowed down enough by your bodysuit that it only tore some muscle and lodged in your rib. It's gonna hurt while it heals, but it definitely could've been worse. And you absolutely saved Maine's life, the doctors say."

Wash shrugs. "Could've been worse," he echoes.

"Yeah," Connie says. "Glad you guys are okay, anyway."

"Thanks for the rescue," Wash says, and she pauses in the doorway. "We definitely would've died out there if you guys hadn't shown up when you did."

She glances back at him for a moment, her face shuttered, then shrugs and leaves the room.

"She's a little odd," Wash says, sinking back in his chair. "Guess it comes with the job." He gnaws on an uneven thumbnail, staring at the wall for a long moment, then says, "You think there's a mole on board or something?"

Maine makes a noncommittal noise, and Wash is inclined to agree. He's never had a good head for all this spy stuff. Probably best to let Internals handle it.

"Hey," he says, "You should probably get some sleep."

Maine looks up at him, then slowly raises an eyebrow.

Wash holds up a hand. "I will too, I promise. I just need to, you know. Be awake for a little while longer."

Maine shrugs, closes his eyes.

"Oh, and Maine? Remind me to steal York's jello when he wakes up."


End file.
